AN: I'm finally back on track! Woohoo! I need something positive, because I saw snow today. *cue gagging noises*

Today's prompt options were: Migraine / Concussion / Blindness. I'm not telling you when this is set because it's a reveal partway through.

JaniceC678: *sends virtual hugs* What lovely, lovely comments! I enjoy Weechesters and flashbacks, and I'm glad you did too. And you were so kind about chapter 11 as well, one I worried was rushed. You really made me smile.

Stormysea-breaks: Merci beaucoup! I am glad it was like a pleasant dream for you. You touched on all of my favorite parts of the chapter, which makes me very happy.

Jenjoremy: It's my favorite too! Especially whumped on Sam and caring Dean. I am so very glad you liked it. I worry about these getting boring or repetitive, hence looking for different kinds of monsters. Thanks, as always, for your kind words.

It wasn't a spirit. It was a shapeshifter, so the rock salt to the chest only pissed it off. And yes, he'd sent the bastard on to kingdom come, but it had gotten in a few licks first. More than a few. None of them mattered except maybe the time it had smashed his face into the wall.

He'd burned its body anyway, though he was seeing double and triple. And coughing in the smoke almost made him pass out. It did make his head pound enough to make him fall to his knees and puke. Which also made him almost pass out.

Blinking back the darkness and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he staggered to his feet. He shouldn't have hunted alone, he knew that. And he certainly shouldn't drive, but he didn't really have a choice. It wasn't far. There wouldn't be many cars on the road. Thankfully.

It took him two tries to get the door open, and another three to get behind the wheel. He wasn't sure how he got the door closed behind him, and twice he had to jerk the wheel as he nearly went into the ditch. But finally, he was pulling into the Singer Salvage yard. He sideswiped two junkers on his way in and threw it into park before he'd stopped moving. He'd regret stripping the gears later, but for now he was just grateful to get to safety.

His relief was a little premature. He opened the door, put one leg out, and faceplanted onto the gravel, completely out before he hit the ground.

"Uncle Bobby's here, Dean! I heard his car!" Sammy's voice squeaked with adrenaline and relief. And if their dad hadn't been lying unconscious on Bobby's couch, Dean would have mocked him for it. Instead, the almost sixteen-year-old blinked in relief. He didn't stop stitching John's wounds, but he was so grateful that an adult was here to take control of the situation tears sprang to his eyes.

"Go get him, Sammy. Tell him Dad's hurt."

Sam could move when he wanted to, and Dean would have sworn the kid left skid marks. But two breaths later, he was back inside, a stricken look on his face. "D-dean? We have a problem." He swallowed hard, fear painting his young face. "Uh, Uncle Bobby can't help us. He's hurt too. He's out c-cold."

Dean had been trained for years to keep his cool. He controlled his breathing, as he'd been taught, and went back to stitching the tears across his dad's torso. He had to keep his focus away from the amount of blood on his hands and the towels they'd put under Dad. And he couldn't think about the size of the wounds, but had to focus on what he was doing. And oh, yes, he had to keep Sammy calm. "Sammy, go evaluate how bad Bobby's hurt. See if you can wake him up. Then give me a sit rep."

Sam nodded and hared it back outside. It was a relief to have someone taking control, and to have a clear job to do. They had bare-knuckled it to Bobby's house with their dad bleeding all over the Impala's upholstery and Sam riding with him in the back to help keep pressure on the slashes the ghoul had left behind. The second ghoul – the one they hadn't known about. The one that had ripped open the door of the Impala, finding Sam. He was supposed to be safe, sitting there doing his homework by flashlight while Dad and Dean hunted.

Sam might not be a hunter yet, barely even hunter-in-training, but he had good reflexes, and he was out the other door of the car before the carrion eater could grab him (see also: Sammy's quick). Dean had dashed back to his brother, no slouch in the speed department himself, and slammed the door on the monster's midsection. It had reared around, furious, and knocked Dean's machete out of reach. But Dad had somehow gotten between the teen and his attacker, and had gotten two slashes – collarbone to waist – for his efforts. He'd killed it, though, then told Dean to get them to Bobby's.

Dean had wanted to argue, since it was a five-hour drive, and Dad was bleeding freely, but you didn't simply contradict John Winchester. Not even when he became less and less coherent. The boys half carried him inside, and he barely had the presence of mind to move his feet. He was out cold by the time they realized Bobby wasn't home. Dean had made the call that they had to get the wounds stitched now.

Dean had finished closing the first slash when Sam had heard Bobby's car pull up, and the relief had been dizzying. The return of the fear was so much worse. He winced as he accidentally pushed a stitch in deeper than he intended to. The fact that Dad didn't so much as twitch was worse. Sure, he'd stitched Dad up before, but nothing this bad, and never when the man was unconscious.

The door banged as Sam burst back in. "Dean –" he had to stop and breathe for a minute. He was panting, and Dean would bet it wasn't from running. Running was the kid's favorite part of working out, the weirdo.

"Breathe, Sammy."

Sam took two gulping breaths, not really understanding the instruction meant slow down. "Okay. He had slow but even pupil response, and he only woke up long enough to puke – uh, vomit. I put him in the recovery position and made sure he's not choking. His eyes are open but he's not answering questions or sh-showing other signs of awareness." Sam had to stop, truly panting now.

Dean nodded to himself and paused in his stitching. The sounding-like-a-medical-journal and rapid-fire delivery were signs that Sam was freaking out. "Okay, good job Sammy. Now slow down a sec before you pass out from hyperventilating."

Sam looked offended, but hey, whatever it took to break him out of the fight-or-flight mode he was stuck in. "I'm not going to pass out! Bobby has a big bump on his forehead and it bled a little, but it shouldn't need stitches. What…what should I do next? I can get ice for Bobby or help with Dad…?"

Dean thought he wanted to be an adult, but this making all the hard decisions and having everyone rely totally on you? It sucked. "Um. Clean Bobby's cut and bandage it, then put ice on his head and keep trying to wake him up."

Sam nodded. He cast one more look at Dad, unable to hide the worry on his face. "Do you need more towels or peroxide first?"

"Yes to both," Dean decided. He focused on what he was doing, relieved that there was barely any bleeding any more. The injuries had happened a long time ago, which meant Dad had lost way too much blood. Making sure Sammy was outside first, Dean reached out and checked Dad's pulse. It was even, but he thought it was a little fast. He rubbed his mouth against the shoulder of his t-shirt and got back to work. Just one stitch at a time.

Sam popped back inside, disappeared into the kitchen, and was back outside again before Dean could say a word. Dean spared a thought for his adopted uncle. He'd take back every wish to get more responsibility, every complaint about being still considered a kid, if only an adult would wake up and take charge.

Dean finished stitching and looked over his work. It wasn't pretty, but it was closed well and no longer bleeding. He wet a cloth in the kitchen and carefully cleaned the injuries and the skin around them. Then he spread a thick layer of antibiotic ointment and covered it all with gauze. He was quite certain that he'd used a lot more tape than Dad would have, but it looked pretty good. He'd cut Dad's t-shirt away, so he spread the afghan from the back of the couch over him. As an afterthought, he pulled off Dad's boots. Please wake up.

"Dean! I'm done. I got Uncle Bobby to the steps, but I can't get him inside."

"You did? How?"

Sam grinned and showed off his handiwork. Bobby did have a big bump on his forehead, but Sam had carefully put a butterfly bandage on the cut. He'd also cleaned a fair amount of gravel out of the man's hands and left cheek. Then he'd rolled him onto a wheeled creeper that was used for working under cars and used in to wheel him to the steps of the porch.

With effort, the boys were able to lift Bobby up onto the porch. Then they brought the creeper up and put him on it to roll him into the house, Sam holding his legs up and Dean steering his head. But…

"Where do we put him, Dean?"

Bobby's bedroom was upstairs, so Dean had to think about it for a moment. "I guess on the floor by the couch so we can keep an eye on him and Dad both."

"Hey, Dean, we should bring his mattress down."

Dean didn't say it out loud, but his dorky brother could be pretty smart. "Not bad, squirt."

Finally, exhausted and shaky from a long, stressful night, the brothers stood side by side and looked down at the two most influential men in their lives. Sam was twitchy, squirrelly, and Dean suspected he was worried. "You need to eat something, Sammy."

Sam looked at him in surprise. It was nearly dawn, but Dean remembered his brother hadn't eaten much for supper, both nervous about the upcoming hunt and distracted by some boring book. And while Dean didn't know what else he could do for Dad or Bobby, he knew how to take care of his little brother. "I'll find us both something."

"Okay." Sam looked around for something he could do, still visibly on edge. "I think I should wash Bobby's towels, or they'll be ruined." Dean nodded, then watched, bemused, when Sam took the jug of peroxide. "It's good for getting blood out," said the eleven-year-old with the tiny grin he wore when he knew something that big brother didn't.

"Whatever." Dean headed for the kitchen, not surprised to find there was no produce in the place. He considered warming up a can of chili, and decided on ham and mayo sandwiches instead. As he finished, Sam came back, hefting both their bags. Dean hadn't even heard him go outside. Why wasn't the kid this helpful all the time?

Sam froze and stared at the beer sitting on the table between to two plates. "We earned it," whispered Dean, as if one of the unconscious men would hear.

Sam giggled in response, and they shared it as they ate their sandwiches. Sam leaned forward as if conveying something of grave importance. "Dean, I've had beer before. Mr. Jones gave me one this summer on that really, really hot day."

Dean thought he should be annoyed by that, but he really wasn't. "He gave me half of his once when I was nine. The brothers shared a conspiratorial grin, then they cleaned up from their meal. As they did, Sam dropped another confession. "I, um, dropped the bottle of peroxide into the washing machine, so we'll have to buy more."

Dean snickered. "Those towels are gonna be, like sterile."

So they were smiling when they did the first of many checks on Dad and Bobby.

Both seemed comfortable, but neither would wake, and Dean decided that if they weren't awake and coherent by noon, he'd call Pastor Jim. Blue Earth was a bit over two hours away, and their friend would drop anything to help them.

Then Sam had another great idea. He found a turkey baster in the kitchen (an implement neither boy could identify) and they used it to get liquid Tylenol and some water into each injured man.

When they were done checking over the older hunters, Dean grabbed Sam in a headlock. The younger boy squirmed and fought, but Dean had at least fifty pounds on him and held him easily.

"I will deny that I said it until the day I die, but you did alright tonight, nerd."

"You too." Sam kicked Dean in the shin and the older boy finally let him go. "Though you drive like a pansy." Sam was running before he finished saying it, well aware of the repercussions he would face for his words.

"Sammy!" Damn, the kid was fast.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Bobby woke up feeling like someone had used his head for their own personal punching bag. He remembered that was pretty much what the shifter had done. Even as slowly woke up, he sensed that someone was looking at him. Peeling his eyes open, he turned his head and met the gaze of John Winchester, who was ensconced on Bobby's couch. That meant he was…on the floor? No, not quite. He was on a mattress on the floor. He looked around a little more, piecing together his memories. He remembered the hunt, the precarious drive home, and nothing beyond that. Had the Winchesters found him on the ground? Or had they already been there? He didn't know.

Bobby never was one for polite conversation, so he opened with, "What are you doing in my house?"

"Ghoul tried to carve me open. Told the boys to drive me here. That's all I got."

"Ghoul?" Bobby didn't hide his surprise. John could handle a ghoul, especially with Dean watching his back.

"There was a second one. It went for Sammy. I…reacted wrong."

Bobby's eyebrows shot up, and he swore silently when that sent pain ricocheting through his head. John Winchester didn't make many hunting mistakes, but he had one weak spot. Well, two.

"What happened to you?" John didn't have any more tact than Bobby did.

"Spirit I was hunting turned out to be a shifter. Rock salt pissed it off so it decided to try and take my head off. I made it home, but not into the house."

"You went after it alone." It wasn't a question.

Both hunters glared at each other for a moment, both aware that they'd screwed up their respective hunts. Then Bobby realized how ridiculous they must look, lying flat, weak and pale, trying to out-intimidate each other, and he had to hide a smile. John must have realized it too, because his dimple peeked out under three or four days' worth of scruff.

Bobby touched his head wound and found it bandaged. He could see John's chest had been covered too, and he slowly put together the pieces. The adults had been down for the count at the same time. "So, the boys are the ones…"

John gestured with his head down toward their feet. Sam was curled into a tight ball in front of the kitchen door, both hands under his cheek. His feet were against Dean, who was sleeping sitting up, leaned against the wall with his legs sprawled out in front of them. "They woke me for concussion checks," Bobby remembered, a little bit stunned.

"And they stitched me back together. And got both our asses in the house." There was pride in John's voice.

Bobby whistled low. "Those are some damn fine boys you have, Winchester."

Then Sam stretched in his sleep, bumping Dean, who smacked his foot away. They both opened their eyes and seemed to notice at the same they were being watched. They scrambled to their feet in their haste, causing a ridiculous tangle of limbs. Their words were just as tangled as they spoke over each other.

"You're awake!"

"How do you feel?"

"Is it okay…?"

"We stitched…"

"We were gonna call…"

"Do you need…"

"Slow down, boys," rumbled John, getting instant silence. "Good work, you two."

Well, Bobby could just about feel the kids glowing from where he sat.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

The next few days were very interesting ones. Sam and Dean might be able to do things most kids their age could not, but domestic skills were not in their wheelhouse. A lamp and vacuum cleaner got broken (the former knocked over when they were carrying the mattress back to its home and the latter when Sam used it to clean up gravel). Bacon was burned, baked beans spilled all over the floor, and an argument over how to clean the blood out of the Impala's upholstery led to an actual wrestling match.

There was fallout besides the scars that lingered, too. Bobby's towels smelled like disinfectant for months. And while he knew he'd dinged up his car driving through the salvage yard, he was not the one who had backed over his smallest toolbox while moving the car back to its normal spot. Since neither boy would say a word about it, he assumed both were at fault somehow.

And sure, Bobby was annoyed by some of it. The bickering alone had him wanting to knock heads together sometimes. But overall, he was just glad to have them around. The idjits had improved his life for years, but he hadn't realized just how big and competent they'd become. They weren't his kids, but he was still so damn proud of them, even when they acted like baboons.

He thought it had been a wake-up call for John, too. The man was softer, more positive, more patient with Sam and Dean than usual. Bobby had the sneaking suspicion that he'd snap back into drill sergeant mode when they started their next hunt, but he hoped not. He hoped John took the time to realize that his boys were well on their way to becoming fine men.

There was a crash from the upstairs, and Bobby's introspection fled like a mouse that spotted a hawk. "If you idjits broke somethin' else, you're sleeping outside tonight!